


The Language of Flowers

by MaraudingManaged



Series: Maraudings and Wanderings [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, F/M, Fluff, Language of Flowers, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 19:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20953388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaraudingManaged/pseuds/MaraudingManaged
Summary: Draco Malfoy owns a flower shop, and Hermione needs a very specific bouquet.He has the perfect one in mind.





	The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a tumblr post I saw in the Strictly Dramione Facebook group, enjoy this little fluffy not-quite-a-drabble. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own.

Draco Malfoy’s shop had been open approximately fifteen minutes that morning when a beleaguered, hot-tempered and hot-faced Hermione Granger swept through the door in a whirlwind of barely contained anger. He raised a single brow as Granger practically threw four Galleons at him, the coins clattering on the countertop ominously. 

“Good morning and welcome to  _ The Language of Flowers.  _ How may I help you today?” Draco spoke politely, but he felt his lips turn upwards in a smirk which he tried very quickly to mask. They might have been more friendly acquaintances these days than blood-sworn enemies, but he didn’t particularly feel like being on the wrong end of Hermione Granger’s wand when she was clearly in quite the tizz over something-or-other. 

Draco Malfoy wasn’t often a betting man, but he was willing to wager his entire selection from Covent Garden flower market that morning that it had something to do with a very particular ginger. 

“I need a bouquet of flowers that says… that says… oh, sod it! How do I create a bouquet that says “fuck you” as passive-aggressively as possible?” Granger fumed, her hair a frizzing mess and her Ministry of Magic robes looking somewhat like they might not have been entirely fresh on that morning. 

_ Ah yes, definitely Weasley. _ “Dear me, Granger. Someone  _ has _ stirred your ire, haven’t they?”

“Don’t. Just don’t, Malfoy. Not today.” She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing as she watched him. Draco tried very hard not to laugh. Not to smile. Not to even wrinkle his brow as he started to collect samples of the flowers he would need. 

“Well then, if a ‘fuck-you’ bouquet it is that you want, a ‘fuck-you’ bouquet I can  _ gladly  _ deliver. Now, you’ll need geraniums for stupidity, foxglove for insincerity and meadowsweet which symbolises uselessness. Then you’ll have yellow carnations which say ‘you have disappointed me’… oh, and orange lilies. Hatred.” He laid out one of each flower for her on the counter he used for wrapping up his flowers, allowing her to see the rather striking combination of colours. 

“Good,” Hermione spat, her nose wrinkling in a mixture of distaste and bitterness. “Orange is his favourite colour; he’ll think that I’ve picked them out especially for that reason. Stupid bloody arse,” She hissed waspishly. 

“Quite.” His brows rose again, desperate to ask what Ronald Weasley had done to deserve her anger this time but not entirely brave enough to ask the woman who quite clearly needed a strong cup of tea - or a firewhisky. “For four Galleons that’ll be quite the arrangement and I’ll need to visit a flower market or two - would you be able to wait for your hand-crafted insult?” 

“No, I’m already bloody late. Can I collect them at the end of the day?” 

“Your beautiful, passive-aggressive bundle of vitriol and bile will be available for 5pm.” Draco bowed mockingly. 

“Excellent.” Granger made to leave, but Draco called out to stop her. 

“Do you still have that monstrosity you call a cat?” He asked, and Granger paused before turning around to cast a withering glare at him. 

“Yes I - oh!” Granger snapped her fingers, expression brightening. “The foxglove and the lilies. Oh, don’t you worry about Crooks, Malfoy. He and I won’t be around much longer for that to be a concern.”

“How very… touching. At least your feral beast is safe from your onslaught.” 

“You are very close to your own ‘fuck-you’ flowers, Malfoy.” Granger rolled her eyes as she made to leave the shop properly this time, her cutting words were belied by the faint smile that was tugging at her lips. 

“Would you like them to be charmed, Granger? Cheering Carnations? Laughing Lilies? ” 

Draco laughed outright when she simply raised her hand over her shoulder, flipping him the finger as she marched right out of the door and into the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. 

Still grinning, he examined the collection of flowers before him thoughtfully before grabbing the overcoat he’d purchased at Henry Poole & Co - after his first ventures into Muggle London proved he needed to be able to blend in a little more subtly. Flipping the sign on his door to  _ closed _ as he ventured out into the street, he pondered just how many lilies he needed to buy to really drive the message home to Weasley quite how much he’d apparently fucked up. 

* * *

“So Malfoy, how did you end up owning a flower shop, of all things?” Granger asked, sipping on her Cauldron Collins. She seemed to have calmed to a dangerous sort of simmering once she’d come to collect her flowers, and after a few moments of deliberation chose to send them with a shop owl and a rather sarcastic, scathing note that Draco had been somewhat surprised to see she had in her. 

He’d offered to take her to the Pestle and Mortar after that - the little cocktail bar he’d helped Blaise Zabini set up and taken a good little earning from since. He’d apparently been right when he’d suspected she needed a little more to drink than tea as she downed her first gin cocktail with little effort, and barely slowed on her second. On her third, Draco was rather surprised to find her harpy-like tendencies had reduced to an entirely tolerable level. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what to think of it, and so instead chose to get rather well-oiled himself. 

“Pansy, mostly,” he admitted, examining the twist of orange on the rim of his glass of Firewhisky Warmer. “It seemed like a worthy business investment after the war - something uplifting to add to my father’s portfolio after I rooted out his backhanders, black market dealings and the investments he made in the Dark L… I mean… Tom Riddle.” He swallowed with a wince. It had been some five years since the end of the war, but he still struggled with the habits formed in fear. 

Hermione’s face echoed his own in a similar wince. “Yes, well, the less said about him the better, don’t you think?” 

“I’ll toast to that.” He raised his glass and tapped it to hers, watching a fleeting smile capture her mouth. “But yes. Pansy struggled a lot after the war. She was never very academically minded, but she’s got a shrewd head for business. She figured a flower shop might have some legs, and when I suggested she offer enchanted and.. Well… Muggle variants, we had a bit of a stumble. Neither of us had really been in the Muggle world, you see, and… after the war, the thought of going there was too much. Far too much, I suppose.” 

“I remember the year after the war. Hogwarts. That was both a great and terrible year, wasn’t it?” Granger mused, running her finger over the rim of her cauldron-shaped glass absently, chin resting in her free hand.

“More terrible for me than it was for you. More than one Slytherin felt the back of your hand, as I recall.” Draco pointed out, the ghost of her palm-print tingling against his cheek most unpleasantly.

Hermione shrugged, remorseless. “You all did insist on spouting your bigoted nonsense. Anyway, it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” 

Draco snorted into his drink. He wasn’t entirely sure what Granger considered ‘working out in the end’, but that he was incapable of holding a Wizengamot seat or any job in government until the Ministry deemed otherwise wasn’t his particular brand of success. “If you say so, Granger.” 

A line formed between Granger’s brows. “Well, you are part of a successful business -” 

“Yes, yes, all well and good,” Draco waved a hand in dismissal. “But it wasn’t particularly my greatest hope and dream to be little more than an investor, you know? I don’t imagine you could understand, Granger. Every door was open to you after the war, and employers were waiting with open arms that were just shy of bribes. I can never work in the government, never brew potions for commercial value. Hell, I was surprised I was permitted to put money into this place, what with Blaise’s penchant for mood-altering substances in his concoctions.” He gestured around him and to his drink. 

“I didn’t realise you couldn’t be involved in potions,” Granger said quietly, barely audible above the after-work rush and musical strains in the background. “I’m sorry, Malfoy. You were always the best in our year. In potions, anyway.” She grinned slyly, and Draco felt a bark of laughter escape his chest in an unexpected huff. 

“It is what it is. Now I am making money hand-over-fist selling flowers, of all things, and I even go to Covent Garden most days - if not me, then Pansy. I have Saville Row suits and everything, Granger. Are you proud of me?” He splayed his arms wide in a gesture inviting observance. 

“Hermione,” Granger stated with finality. “I think it’s time you called me Hermione, don’t you? Aren’t we past all of that old hostility now?” 

Draco blinked at her rather no-nonsense statement - rather not what he had expected. “Er, right then. Hermione. Right. Well then I suppose you’ll have to call me Draco; turnabout is fair play and all that.” 

“Nice to meet you, Draco.” Hermione held out her hand for him to shake, and he took it without a blink or ounce of hesitation. 

“And you, Hermione.” 

Draco wondered on the way home, walking with a curious spring in his step and a whistle on his lips, if Hermione would like white camellias, gardenias, calla lilies or apple geraniums more. 

He had a perfect bouquet in mind.   



End file.
